A Study in Pale Hues
by Eliza B. Welch
Summary: A study of the paler side of romance.


Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't ask, don't tell. But, actually, it's really only the HP _world_ that I'm borrowing from JK, here. Rouge is mine. Stratford is the creation of a very particular Mackenzie Common.

Note to readers: This is an OC/OC semi-romance, here. Also, as of this date, this romance is in no way related to "The Red Shadow" other than the use of the character Rouge. Really, it was just an idea... a study, if you will, to see how these characters would turn out together...

__

Pour Mackenzie, l' astre peu commun

"A Study in Pale Hues"

Stratford. What kind of name is _Stratford?_

His real name was Domonic, if that's any consolation. Not to her, though. Both the names—'Domonic' _and_ 'Stratford'—were full-mouthed and her tongue fumbled around the undeniably _English_ vowels. She often called him '_Dominique'_, with its smooth French syllables that you hardly have to part your lips to murmur.

He didn't call her much of anything. Not that she blamed him. Who was she to make a fuss over his name? Hers was a damn _color_! She could just imagine how he must have looked when she introduced herself—memory failed her—repeating her name and his eyes shifting to the red streaks in her hair.

But he spoke French, whispering words into kisses that soothed the beast of having to be a stranger in a strange land, feeding her ears that were starved of the sounds of her native tongue. If she loved him for anything, it was that—no. _No_. Not love, never _love_.

Because Rouge Magie doesn't _love _and he was just so condescending, so sarcastic, so biting, so cruel and cold... But so was she. They were perfect together.

Even aesthetically, they were perfect; they looked good together. He was tall, thin, and pale, with dark hair and pale blue eyes. Pale—everything, always so _pale_. But she liked to play with him, prompt him for certain reactions, always wanted to make his pale eyes dark with lust—make his eyes dark cobalt like hers.

They'd met at a meeting—a Death Eater meeting. She, at her father's side, and he, across the circle. She'd noticed him because he was so young—like her. She didn't remember how this had started—this, this understanding, this romance—only remembered talking to him before. She remembered discussing views on blood with him. He'd said that he didn't care. He had equal disgust for everyone. "I believe I have no prejudices whatsoever," she replied, quoting Mark Twain. "All I need to know is that a man is a member of the human race. That's bad enough for me." He'd laughed at that. That was the start of the friendship, she was fairly certain. Or was that the start of the affair? She didn't know—didn't remember.

She'd once asked him why he was a Death Eater. Didn't want to be like his father, he claimed, or like his brother. That's why they were together; there was a chain of reasoning, here, a syllogism. He was a Death Eater because he didn't want too be like his father and brother. They were together because they were Death Eaters. That was the reason, wasn't it? She desperately tried to reason it, but there was nothing to reason. Nothing except hormones, she'd think to appease her cynicism. He could try all he wanted to not be like his family, but he couldn't _not_ be a teenage boy. Yeah, that was probably the easiest rationale.

They never saw each other during the day or in class. She didn't know what year he was in, didn't even know what house. You'd think she would, but she didn't. It was amazing, how they managed their little meetings at all, these meetings that alluded to bare skin and shared breath. She'd go out at night and simply find him. Over time, they'd established standard places, but every meeting was a chance—every night had only a chance of becoming a meeting.

He left her waiting, sometimes, wandering through the night, looking for him. She liked to think that she left him waiting sometimes, too.

It wasn't all passion, no, of course not. They'd talk, most of the time. Besides the French—she considered that part of the passion—they'd talk about politics. And they'd talk about homework, never about themselves or this romantic involvement, though that's how they'd probably phrase it—_"romantic involvement"_, that was nice and euphemistic. She read more of the Daily Prophet, read it _daily_, just to make sure she'd have something to talk about with him whenever she met him next. She did her homework more thoroughly, put more thought into it, so she could repeat some of it back to him, though he was never impressed. He was just so damn smart—probably a Ravenclaw, damn him. Their talk was so distant with formality, and then, as if someone finally struck a match, drawing them in together against the distance, against the cold, and into the heat, Stratford would kiss her. And she'd kiss back.

She sometimes wondered if this was what those arranged marriages in the aristocracy were like; relationships made up of distance, formality, and kisses. ...Except maybe not even with the kisses.

But despite the distance and formality, she was still a teenage girl (you can only fight the hormones so much). She found herself having moments of teenage girlishness at times, wondering if he really did like her; found herself hoping that he did. She supposed that he liked her... he kept coming back, didn't he? ...And what about her? Did she like _him_? Well, she kept coming back, too, didn't she? But there was that uncertainty, that complete lack of communication that kept this from being even close to a _real_ relationship. No, this definitely wasn't a relationship. This was a lover's affair of brief meetings—of trysts made of warm skin against cold stone and nothing more.

There was something so intangible about it, about never speaking of the affair though they lived it, about never planning meetings, just letting them _happen_. And any day now, she thought as she wandered through the dark, it might stop. Just stop. And what would be the proof that it ever existed? How could she know if it had ever existed? There was nothing stable, nothing she could hold on to, nothing she could do to make sure it lasted.

It was like a flash of light, a star exploding—a brief, intense moment of light and heat—...! And then it's gone. And you might not have even seen it, like something out of the corner of your eye. Might have never even known that it was there.

But she kept coming back to him, she did. And so did he, he always came back to her, she'd think quickly, as if it were a defense. She felt like she needed the defense because, with him, she was defenseless. He could strip her down to the naïve little girl she really was, scarred and scared and vulnerable beneath his cold and condescending stare. She could bite back at him as much as she wanted, but nothing could take away the secret fear. And she knew nothing of what he felt about her! That was the _worst goddamn part_ of all this! She could never find out if he was scared, too!

...Yeah, she was afraid of him. She'd never, _ever_ admit it, but she was. She didn't think he'd hurt her or _kill_ her or anything... But the amazing thing about people is free will—the ability of choice. Rouge herself believed she had no choice in having the brand on her left forearm—her father had given to her, she hadn't asked for it; it wasn't choice in her case, it was _blood_—but Stratford had made the decision to become what he was. She wasn't sure why this scared her so much; most Death Eaters decided to join the ranks on their own free will... but Stratford... they were _so much alike_... except that he had decided for himself. It made her afraid of what else he could choose. And the choices that might take him even further away from her than he already was...

But she held him close to her, hands slipping over scarred skin until all they bore as one were two skull-and-snake tattoos, pressed bruising kisses onto those lips—pale and thin, just like him—and forced him to feel for her just to prove that he could. Feel for her, that is, though all it really proved was that he could want her. Sometimes feelings had nothing to do with it. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe they really did feel nothing.

And when he entered her—was there no other verb for it? It makes it sound like a biblical demon possession; and one could suppose, in a way, it was. He was the demonic being, and, entering her, he filled her with evils she alone could never have known or committed or conceived. But when he entered her, she'd throw out her arms, desperately trying to hold on. She was falling; falling into this hell, and she had to hold on to _something_.

And she knew that she couldn't hold on to him.


End file.
